Chapter 1
Autumn is finally sinking its fangs into the Land of Fire, the last lingering warmth of summer chased away by the biting wind. Red and gold slowly consume the heavy mantle of green which cloaks Konohagakure no Sato.
In the gilded light of afternoon, Orochimaru walks through the graveyard alone.
Bearing his usual wreath of vibrant spider lilies, he approaches his parents’ gravestones, he lays the flowers on the grass, folding his hands neatly in front of him.
Here, he can calm his restless mind. Escape the million burdens that weigh so heavily on his shoulders. Only here, in the quiet, lonely corner graveyard, away from those mourning the casualties of war, he can feel some semblance of peace. He can pretend the scattered thoughts in his head make some sort of coherent sense. That the ugly feelings in his heart aren’t slowly eating him alive.
That the tremors in his left hand, the perpetual fog in his brain,the stiffness gradually setting into his muscles like rigor mortis, weren’t promising to ruin everything that made his life worth living.
If he closes his eyes and tries- really tries- he can almost (almost) feel his mother wrap her arms around him, petting his hair, telling him he’s going to be alright, “Don’t be afraid, poor pretty boy. I’ve got you-” (even if it’s a lie). That his father is telling him he’s proud of him, that he shouldn’t be afraid (even though he’s terrified).
But of course, it’s all just an illusion, and when he opens his eyes, his mother and father (Mama and Papa, he remembers, he still remembers and he used to think he wanted to forget. But he doesn't, he wants to remember and God please don’t let me forget-) aren’t there. They never are.
However- he’s no longer alone in his secluded corner of the graveyard.
He first catches a glimpse of the child out of the corner of his eye, surprised that they’d managed to sneak behind him unnoticed. He turns his head toward the child- a boy who can’t be older than three or four. A tiny, frail thing with wide, black eyes and downy black hair to match, dressed in the same dark attire as the others. The little child’s eyes bore into Orochimaru as though he wished to burn a hole through him.
Orochimaru raises an eyebrow- a silent what are you doing? to his unexpected companion.
“...What’s the point?”
“Hm?”
The boy gestures toward the graves, and the flowers, then at the group of solemn shinobi a few meters away.
“Mourning. What do we do it for?”
Orochimaru blinks, surprised to hear such a question from one so very young.
(In truth, he’s never given much thought to it himself.)
“...I suppose there isn’t a reason,” he answers, after mulling it over for a few precious moments. “After all- grieving for the dead is meaningless.”
“Then why do we grieve?”
(Such big questions from such a tiny thing.)
“I suppose we grieve the loss of the life they could have had,” Orochimaru answers.
“But what’s the point of life ?”
The child looks so very serious- Orochimaru almost laughs.
“There isn’t one,” Orochimaru answers, smiling pityingly at the boy. “After all- if life had any sort of meaning, why would it ever end?”
This is evidently not the sort of answer the child was hoping for. His little brow knits together, a frown pulling at his mouth.
“If there’s any sort of point to living and dying, it’s to take advantage of them, don’t you think?”
The boy is silent.
Orochimaru supposes this isn’t the sort of conversation such a small child could understand, so he turns to walk away-
“-Wait!”
The boy catches him by the sleeve. His lower lip trembles, those huge, black eyes full to the brim with tears.
“If there’s no point to living, then why do we live?!” he demands, that minute voice cracking under emotions too heavy for him to bear.
“-We fight each other and we kill and we die but what’s the point if life doesn't mean anything?!”
The tears overflow, spilling down round little cheeks. A great sob wracks that tiny little body, sharp and painful to listen to.
Orochimaru cocks his head, a twinge of pity stirring at the depths of a heart he thought had dried up years ago.
So, rather than leave this poor child, as he intended to, he stays.
He kneels down, though his body is stiff and aching. He takes one of the boy’s tiny hands in his, allowing the other to rest on his head, atop that hair that’s as soft and as black as a crow’s feathers.
(Such a strange thing, he muses, for the briefest moment, that something so small could grow into a man someday.)
“Hush, now,” he commands, though he keeps his voice gentle. “Crying won’t solve anything.”
A sniff. A grimace. How terribly pitiful.
“Perhaps there isn’t a purpose in life. But, if you linger here awhile longer, you might find something to make it worthwhile.”
The child makes a small, mournful sound. Like a sad puppy.
“...I thought for sure you would know,” he whines.
“Hm?”
“You’re one of the Sannin. If you don’t know, then-”
(How strange, that this boy so very, very young would recognize him. Though- he supposes he’s one of those types who stands out in a crowd.)
Before Orochimaru has a chance to ask the child his name, he receives his answer.
“Itachi, we’re leaving.”
A tall, grim-faced man places a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder, perhaps shocked to see his son so bold as to talk to one of the legendary Sannin.
(Or alarmed that his son had so obviously been crying.)
Uchiha Fugaku leads his son away without another word, and Itachi obeys without a protest.
Ah. Uchiha Itachi. A few things make sense, now.
He’d heard whispers. Rumors about the child that circulated through the village. The scandal that’s been bubbling since the day Fugaku and Mikoto brought home their too-tiny, too-early firstborn from the hospital.
The Uchiha are such a strong, proud clan, after all. Weakness was something they shunned, for fear of sullying the bloodline. And for their head to produce such a sickly heir- well.
Not many people got the chance to see the boy; most of the time (or so Orochimaru has heard), he’s confined in his home, like a caged bird (or like a prisoner), a revolving door of physicians his only company.
Rather than the celebration the clan held with the birth of each new child, the Uchiha clan’s strong, steadfast leader had been planning a funeral for his unfortunate firstborn. Little wonder, then, that he’s already so preoccupied with death.
But his firstborn child did not die.
Uchiha Itachi. Orochimaru has a feeling he’ll want to remember that name.
Shimura Danzo is agitated. Orochimaru can tell that much before the old man opens his mouth. The air in his underground hideaway instantly drops several degrees the moment he steps in.
“Is something the matter?”
(It’s an obvious question with an obvious answer, but Orochimaru can’t help but ask it.)
“Namikaze Minato is to be the Fourth.”
Orochimaru isn’t surprised to hear it. How could he be surprised, when he’d so long ago fallen out of his Sensei’s favor?
Despite being thoroughly unsurprised, however, the words still sting.
(His mind’s eye can see that old childhood ambition at last slipping from his grasp.)
“...And I suppose you’re unhappy with this decision?” Orochimaru inquires, even though the answer is obvious.
“He’s far too young. He’s got no experience in diplomacy, or any sort of political background. He’s not the sort of person you’d put in as a strong leader.”
“That’s because Sarutobi isn’t looking for a strong leader.”
Orochimaru turns his head, unwilling to look at the old man any longer. He fiddles with his beakers, his research notes- anything to keep his hands and his eyes occupied.
“Not that what Sarutobi-sensei wants will matter for much longer, anyway.”
He knows what Danzo wants to hear, and- though it eats him alive- he’s willing to say it for now.
“If my research is successful, the Hidden Leaf will be in your grasp.”
These words don’t soothe Danzo’s anger at all.
“Everything is going Hiruzen’s way at the moment,” he growls.
“Hm.”
Orochimaru doesn't let the vile badger see his face, lest he catch just how tired he feels.
“Sandaime intends to use Minato as a puppet,” he agrees, and curses himself for how weary he sounds. “To keep running the village the way he wants.”
He takes a breath. Slips on the mask of the unflappable Orochimaru he knows he must maintain. He bears his teeth in a semblance of a grin when he finally faces Danzo again.
“-If you want to take that power from him, you’ll need to think of other measures.”
This seems to set the wheels in Danzo’s head turning. He stands wordless for a few moments, leaning heavily on his cane, lost in his own thoughts.
“-I expect you to complete your work soon,” he says, then turns on his heel and storms out as quickly as he’d barged in.
The moment the heavy door slams shut, Orochimaru slumps against the metal work table, pent-up breath escaping him. He grinds his teeth, silently cursing that rotten old man who plagued him.
But he can’t dwell on that too long. Time is a luxury, and he has precious little left.
He fishes in one of the pockets of his flak jacket, popping the top off a small pill bottle.
He swallows three of them dry, with a sigh and a grimace.
The medication goes to work immediately, taking some of the stiffness from his limbs, soothing the tremors in his hand.
Danzo is right about one thing. He has work left to do. And he has to finish it soon.
A few days later, in the early hours of the morning, Orochimaru is once again in his lonely corner of the graveyard. Legs folded beneath him, he stares, without really seeing, at the graves before him.
Exactly like the other graves. Blending into the endless rows of fallen soldiers. Shinobi and kunoichi who faded into the crowd of the nameless dead the moment their bodies failed.
The thought of one day joining them sends a shiver up Orochimaru’s spine.
“-Orochimaru-sama?”
That voice. That tiny, quiet voice.
“You’re up a bit early, aren’t you, Itachi-kun?”
Itachi musters up a small, sheepish smile.
“I snuck out,” he admits, bashfully, hands behind his back. “Please don’t tell my parents.”
“Oh? And what did you do that for?” Orochimaru chuckles, suddenly quite amused.
“Well- I hoped you’d be here again.”
Itachi kneels beside him, in a miniature mirror of Orochimaru’s posture. His cherubic face is almost comically grim in its expression.
“Did you need something, Itachi-kun?”
“...I’m gonna be a big brother.”
“Hm?”
“My mom’s gonna have a baby. In the summer, I’m gonna have a little brother or sister.”
“Is that so.”
Itachi fidgets with his little hands.
“The war is over now, right?” he asks. “So my new brother or sister isn’t gonna have to-”
He trails off, sadness casting clouds over those lovely eyes of his.
“Nobody knows for sure,” Orochimaru answers. “This war is over, yes- but I’m sure there will be others. There have always been others.”
Itachi flinches as though the man had slapped him, his head hanging heavy.
“I’m sorry to upset you, Itachi-kun. But lying to you won’t do you any good.”
The boy nods.
“So, how do I protect them?”
“Eh?”
“My brother- or my sister. How do I protect them, if a war comes back? What do I do?”
Orochimaru reaches out, and ruffles the boy’s downy hair.
He remembers asking that same question, so many years ago. At this same pair of graves, accompanied by Sarutobi-sensei.
The answer he gives is the same answer Sarutobi had given him back then.
“When that time comes, Itachi-kun, you’ll know what you’ll have to do.”